Morgan Delaney

Dark, strange and fantastic fiction

Blog

Rush

by

A snarling street cat with birds flying overhead
Made with photos by Vadim Sadovski and Anthony DELANOIX on Unsplash

It’s still -20 degrees in Kazakhstan, but we’re going out in the garden for this week’s flash fiction anyway. You can imagine it’s somewhere else.

I’m not really sure what genre this one is. Perhaps you can write in and tell me?

Sean brought me another dead bird this morning. Sean means “old” in Irish to remind him to enjoy life while he can. He’s my cat.

Sean likes to bite the heads off the birds, and I can’t decide if it means he doesn’t respect me (“Here, you can have the rest of this bird”), or that he pities me, like a patient mother chopping up already soft vegetables for a finicky sickly child.

Do children eat vegetables? That’s something I’ve forgotten over the course of a long life. I know my cat’s name is Sean. I named him after an old boyfriend. Or husband, or something. And I know that the little birdies in my garden are trying to tell me something important, which is why Sean kills them when they come too close.

He buries their heads in the flower beds with their secrets still inside.

I don’t remember buying a cat.

I don’t remember the last time I bought anything, or even went as far as the garden gate. If it weren’t for the dead birds’ bodies that Sean feeds me, then I might have starved years ago.

What kind of name is Sean for a cat? If I had a cat, I’d call him… Puss, perhaps. That’s not a good name, but I don’t have time to worry about that. I have to concentrate on digging up the birds.

Sean doesn’t like it when I go into the garden, but he won’t tell me what the doctors say either, so I have to ask the birds that a neighbourhood stray buries in my garden. Sometimes the head isn’t there yet, so I have to kill the bird myself. Sean will try to take it if he catches me, but I won’t let him. He can have the body if he wants. There’s nothing left worth having in a cold body, but I won’t give him the head for all that I pity him. He’s getting older and older, while I intend to go on forever.

As soon as I’ve put the bits of the birds’ secrets together, I’ll be flying right out of this prison, leaving the old man behind.

And here’s something a little birdie told me: the new album from psychedelic rockers Earthless is out tomorrow, January 28th. If we learned anything from this week’s story, it’s that life is too short to waste. Make the most of yours with Night Parade of One Hundred Demons!

Sun

by

A setting sun at a crossroads
Photo by Malcolm Lightbody on Unsplash

I don’t know why they call them “crossroads”, they always seem like a mighty peaceful place to me. Now that I’ve got that out of my system, it’s safe to read on for this week’s supernatural flash fiction.

As soon as the sun disappeared over the horizon, the devil stepped out from the crossroads’ shadow, as if he’d been there all the time.

“Take a walk with me?” His slow accent reminded me of an old headmaster. We headed back to town — according to the signpost — but I didn’t recognise the way.

“People often call me when they need help with something, and I can see you’re one of those people. If I can help, I surely will,” said the Devil.

“I want to know why my wife is with you,” I said.

We walked a piece in silence, followed by shadows that stretched like elastic without the sun to give them shape, pecked at by birds without heads that hopped down from the dark branches around us.

“I don’t get asked that very often,” said the Devil. “Sometimes I’ve been asked to make sure a wife stays there, but…”

“She wasn’t always easy to live with, but she wasn’t bad.”

The Devil sucked in a lungful of air while he thought. If we had really been going back to town, we’d have been there by now, but there was nothing around us, except for the road we were on, and the trees passing us by. The same ones, again and again, like cheap background in a cartoon. The birds hurried us forwards by stabbing at our shadows with their sharp claws.

“I dare say you’d like her back,” said the Devil.

“I dare say I couldn’t afford the price, if I did.”

“So you’re just curious?”

“Human nature.” I stopped. I wouldn’t walk any further with a man — you know what I mean — only pretending to be my friend.

“Hannah Scott, née Cassidy, born ‘54? She’s there,” he said. “Didn’t respect her parents when she was little.”

So she was there, and for such a stupid reason. I sliced the Devil in the throat with a sweaty-handled knife.

He didn’t make the rules, but it wouldn’t kill him either.

He was done up like a man, so I guessed it was the kind of thing a man gets sent to Hell for.

If you’d like to listen to some horror, instead of having to do the work of, you know, moving your eyeballs, >groan<, why not try The Hotel on BBC Sounds?

Crash

by

A heart icon overlaid on a bare tree.
Made with photos by Fabrice Villard and Daria Nepriakhina on Unsplash

After the protests and heavy-handed response last week, it looked like things have calmed down here in Kazakhstan (certainly in Nur-sultan, which anyway escaped the brunt of the violence).

I admit to having my doubts about the official explanation, but it looks like the real story was much worse than even I could have imagined. It turns out Kazakhstan was under attack by…

Jazz Musicians from Kyrgyzstan! 😮

Luckily the danger has been averted, so you can relax for this week’s piece of flash fiction, which is also about a man on a mission.

Enjoy!

The snow hid the curve of the road until it was too late. The ambulance Brent was driving ploughed through the guardrail and into a deep drift.

“Shit!” Brent was uninjured, and the ambulance didn’t seem badly damaged, just stuck. When he tried to reverse, his wheels span without purchase. And he had a heart in the back of the ambulance, with a patient waiting for it.

It wasn’t easy to get out of the vehicle; it was pointed away from the road and down into the neighbouring field at a thirty-degree angle. When he pushed the car door, the snow pushed back. It was up to the handle already, up to Brent’s waist, when he finally made his way into it. He climbed back to the road, hoping to spot a car that might tow him out, but there was no sign of any traffic.

He’d been travelling too fast, he knew that, but the heart transplant was urgent. If he’d taken the motorway, there’d be cars about, but that was exactly what he’d been trying to avoid. He’d gambled on the empty back roads, and it had been paying off until he crashed. Had he fallen asleep at the wheel, one of those micro-sleeps? With the missing second income since Janine got sick, he was working every available shift. Driving was more stressful, too, in this kind of weather. And it wasn’t like people were lining up to become heart donors. Still, it’d be worth it once he’d finished the run and could enjoy Christmas with Janine.

From the empty road, he could see the snow-covered roofs of the Daniel’s farm a few hundred metres to the west. That, at least, was great news. He was only a half hour’s walk away from home. The only problem was that he didn’t think he could lug the donor’s body all that way to where Janine was waiting for it. Could he walk home to borrow Janine’s car? Maybe. If nothing else went wrong.

Behind him, a groan came from the back of the ambulance as his unwilling donor regained consciousness.

If you subscribe to my monthly newsletter then I’ll see you this Saturday (with funny cat photo!), otherwise I’ll see you again next Thursday!

Friction

by

A black and white photo of a man in a boat ice fishing
Photo by Bjørn Are With Andreassen on Unsplash

Hi all,

Thanks to the protests here in Kazakhstan, it doesn’t look like this post will appear on its scheduled Thursday, because the internet has been basically cut. But I’m going to write and prepare it. I’ll upload it, when the internet returns, which, according to some rumours, might not be until January 19th or so.

Speaking of rumours, if you’re outside Kazakhstan, you probably have a better idea of what’s going on than I do. (Assuming you get your news from an actual news source, not Facebook. Facebook is basically an advertising company. It provides “entertainment” to keep you “engaged”, and made up stuff is more “engaging” than facts. See? That’s a scientifically proven fact, and wasn’t it boring?)

Anyway, I can’t upload my blog today, and I can’t use my bank card to buy food (the payment machine needs an internet connection to confirm the payment). So, I joined the queue of about 50 people waiting to take out cash from the cash dispenser. Talk about being engaged! It’s not normally the done thing to ogle the screen while people are getting money, but today, it was de rigueur. By the time I joined the queue, only one of the four machines was still giving people their own money back on request, and let me tell you: it was exciting.

When I joined the queue, it was still possible to take out the maximum amount of 100,000 Kazakh Tenge (a little over €200). The queue snaked around the foyer, and I had to follow it around to where the non-working machines blocked my view. By the time I could see the machine again, my adrenaline was pumping as people were already down to a maximum of 50,000 KZT.

Then 20,000 KZT.

10,000 KZT.

The woman in front of me got 6,000 KZT.

I got 0 KZT.

Spare me your pity, however, because only time will tell whether I really left with nothing! Of the fifty people in the foyer (and the line kept getting topped up behind me, so that’s fifty at a time, not fifty total), about ten were wearing masks (Yes, cynical and pedantic reader, I mean nine others and I). Of those ten, four were using their masks primarily as chin-warmers.

Luckily, the highly infectious Covid-19 variant, Omicron, hasn’t reached Kazakhstan. Whew!

According to official reporting, that is, and not the other thing: facts.

So, as I have no facts and can’t go online to find out what is happening from a reputable news source, I’m going to have to guess what’s going on outside. Here we go.

The initial cause seems to have been an almost-doubling of the cost of liquid gas, which people here use for fuel. But in the same way that an increase in bus fares set off wider-ranging protests in Chile, I’m guessing people are now protesting about a lot of other things, such as thirty years of corruption and cronyism*.

As I say, I don’t know what’s going on. I’m just speculating based on my perception. Among other things, cutting internet when people want to complain doesn’t feel like the action of a legitimate democratic government to me.

Today’s flash fiction is very much in keeping with today’s theme (it was very subtle, were you able to spot it?).

Enjoy!

The thing about having his workshop in the shed where he also kept chickens was that they were always staring. Arnold ignored the quizzical glances boring into his back as he connected the final wire on the bomb. Finally, it was done, the tofu-like slab of Semtex sweating in the hot shed, just like Arnold’s forehead.

Now all he had to do was decide who to send it to. Arnold had a lot of enemies. Or so he liked to think.

Back in the kitchen, he fried up half a dozen eggs with a half-pint of milk and stared into space as he chewed the undercooked gummy mass. He tried imagining the newspaper headlines. That was a good point. If he wanted a positive write up, then he should leave the media alone. After breakfast, he logged onto his computer to help decide on a suitable target and immediately felt like a martyr. On his desktop was the folder, practically bulging, and which he had cunningly called “New Folder” to deflect attention, where the ladies of his porn collection lived. After years of conditioning, even the plain pancake-yellow folder icon got him excited.

If only he had an actual girlfriend (or two, gorgeous and bi-curious, ideally). Then, if something had happened to one of them, he could use his bomb to avenge her. The closest Arnold had ever come to a girlfriend was when a woman had once smiled at him by mistake. There was also the fact that he had given his chickens women’s names, about which he kept very quiet in his incel forum. He scrolled through the feed.

Politicians, banks, Big Tech, antifa, climate change scientists, members of the secret Bill Gates army (which was actually led by George Soros, except for when it was the other way around).… It wasn’t a lack of options, there were too many. He could even blow up his chickens if he wanted, though that would hardly make the headlines.

Unless…

Unless they were celebrity chickens!

Making his chickens famous kept him busy for a long time. Arnold’s Dancing Chickens Channel grew more popular every week, and the spin-off “Masked Chicken Challenge” was a smash hit on Netflix. He soon forgot all about his bomb, and, because this is a fairy tale, having actual things to do made him a better person, so he even met a girl who liked him.

*My fictional lawyer has asked me to clarify that I’m not suggesting there is any actual corruption here, merely that I suffer from a perception that a non-zero level of corruption exists. Probably because of social media. Hey, I’m the victim here!

Cream

by

Small dead fish on a slab
Photo by Ben Ostrower on Unsplash

In the final flash fiction of the year, we look to Fate to help us live our best possible life. Enjoy!

Granny told the future from how the milk twisted when she poured it into her tea. She had seen World War II coming, and the day Granddad got hit by that car.

When I met Julie at work, I went straight to Gran for advice. I was madly in love with Julie and wanted to know if she felt the same way about me before I popped the question.

I kept it all to myself until after her divorce. Her husband kept custody of the kids, so she wouldn’t be bringing any “baggage.” it was perfect. Not that I’d have minded. Not really. But perhaps she needed a complete change to stop calling out her ex-husband’s name when we made love.

Shortly before Shrove Tuesday in the year after we married, I visited Gran again. I made tea for us both and unpacked some posh biscuits to stay on Fate’s good side.

“I see a long and happy life. Did you get these from Waitrose?” When I nodded, she took a biscuit. “I see health, happiness and fortune,” she continued.

It always pays to invest in quality baked goods. I spoil Julie with them, too.

“I see — “ Gran started coughing, and only stopped when she was dead.

Julie loves biscuits, so I make sure she gets plenty. Gran would want me to do that. I’m sure it’s what she wanted to say before she died. And whatever happens, I’ll be fine: Julie did well in the divorce settlement. I thump her on the back as another one goes down the wrong way.

Looking into the future, what else might the future hold for me as a forward facing indie author? Well, maybe I’ll get into NFTs. Don’t know what that is? Here’s a handy explainer for you!

See you next year!

A Bit of Give and Take

by

A family of gingerbread figures, one of whom is unhappy
Made with a photo by Food Photographer | Jennifer Pallian on Unsplash

I’m not a big fan of Christmas, so I wrote this piece of flash fiction to get myself in the mood. Enjoy!

We grinned at each other as we heard cursing come down the chimney. Becky was ready with the good silver tray with its glass of milk and expensive shortbread biscuits. I prepared to lend a hand unloading the Xboxes, PlayStations, and accompanying games we’d requested. The figure was soot-black and still cursing as he climbed backwards out of the grate. Then he turned around and Becky screamed.

“It’s not what it looks like,” said Death. “I’m just filling in to help out.”

“Gran’s in bed, take her!” said Kevin.

Death pursed his… mouth? “Well, that’s not nice.”

Kevin wasn’t getting a go on my Xbox, I thought. Then I quickly and loudly thought: I mean, of course he can play on mine. (No point taking any risks at this stage.)

“Would you like a biscuit?” Becky had picked one of the broken shortbreads off the carpet and offered it to Death.

“Thanks, I’m on a diet.” He patted where his belly would have been if he wasn’t a skeleton. “Tough crowd,” he said after a minute, and sighed. “Let’s get this over with, shall we? An Xbox and three games each, alright?” He rummaged in his bag.

“I wanted a PlayStation,” said Kevin, as he wiped his nose on his sleeve.

“Yes, but you just tried to trade your granny for one, so no.”

He stacked the brightly wrapped boxes under the tree, while we crowded around to double-check the name-tags. Once I saw mine, I went to get a wet dishcloth to mop up the spilled milk. Again: no point taking chances.

I rubbed at the carpet’s pile, waiting for Death to say “just kidding!” but it looked like he meant it, and was going to leave without giving Kev anything. Father Christmas is usually prepared for a bit of give and take, when he comes around to our house. And that’s when the strangest feeling came over me. It was a sort of aching hollow in my chest, which I had never experienced before.

I…

I felt sorry for Kevin! It was a Christmas miracle, just like on TV!

“Wait!” I called as Death was folding himself up to get back up the chimney. It wasn’t fair to leave Kevin like this. Death turned, so did the others, and I knew this was the right thing to do. I even felt it in the tears running down Kevin’s face.

“About Kevin… “ I took a breath. Was it just my imagination or did Death’s skull face soften? It wasn’t Kevin’s fault that he always messed things up, but he’d be miserable all during Christmas again.

“He got nothing this year. But neither did you.”

Death’s eyes flashed, but we’d already got our presents, so there was no question about it being a bribe.

“Won’t you take him with you? As a gift?”

In the end, Death had to go out the front door because of course Kevin’s stupid dead leg wouldn’t fit properly into the sack.

If you read this on Thursday, the 23rd of December there’s still a chance to boost my preferred Christmas song into the number one spot of the UK charts.

Because I’m a “certain sort of person” and because you owe it to posterity. Get it here! (<– Content warning for lots of swearing.)

And if you’re still looking for a Christmas present, may I recommend Witness X by S. E. Moorhead? (<– Content warning for an unputdownable page-turner!)